Fires of War (10 page)

“Guns, they question these guys at the front gate?”

“Just let them through, Ferg. The patrol should be starting in another five minutes or so. Any time after that, I mean. It’s been twenty-five minutes.”

Ferguson retrieved the second tag from the side of the reception building and then began looking for the last, which Thera had planted on top of a barrel opposite the corner of the building.

The problem was, he didn’t see a barrel.

Thinking Thera had gotten the corner wrong when she drew her map, Ferguson got down on his hands and knees and crawled along the side of the building. He was about midway when he heard voices coming from the direction of the administration station. Cursing, he jumped up and got back to the reception building as the men crossed toward the recycling area.

“They’re going for the truck,” warned Guns.

Ferguson was now trapped. He couldn’t stay where he was because he’d be easily visible once the truck started in his direction. Two of the other sides of the building were visible from the administration station itself; the front, with its large doors, was covered by cameras.

He considered running across the open lot to his left but decided that was too risky. Instead he backed against the building, hoping to hide in the shadows. The metal ribs extended out nearly a foot, but he didn’t think they were quite big enough to hide him. As he examined them, he thought it might be possible to climb up between them, leaning against one rib with his feet and the other with his hands. He gave it a quick try, pulling upright a few feet off the ground.

The sound of the pickup approaching convinced him this was going to have to be the solution. Ferguson reached the metal overhang of the building and pulled himself on top as the patrol truck swung in his direction.

As soon as the truck passed, Ferguson took out his night-vision glasses and used them to scout the nearby yard. The barrel was about ten yards from the corner of the building; he’d gone by it earlier without realizing it was where Thera had put the bug. Obviously her map hadn’t been drawn to scale.

Meanwhile, the truck that had come through the gate had disappeared into the entrance to the low-level waste storage area. Ferguson could see the top of the opening but not inside.

“Ferg, where are you?” asked Rankin over the radio.

“On top of the situation.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“On the reception building. Where are you?”

“Over near the back of the administration building. I got one more to get.”

“Hang tight. Guards are coming back.”

The pickup swung around the reception building, slowed near the entrance to the recyclable waste area, and then returned to the administration building.

“Clear,” said Ferguson. He was about to jump down when he saw the headlights from the truck that had come in earlier heading in his direction. “Hold it,” he told Rankin, and he leaned down against the metal roof.

Blessed Peak was a state-run facility; the users weren’t charged. Why would they need to bypass the standard procedures by bringing a single truck in late at night, skipping around the classifying and tracking station?

Ferguson reached into his pocket and grabbed three small wireless bugs, then crawled to the edge of the roof. When the truck passed the building, he tossed the bugs onto the top of the truck body. One bounced onto the ground, but the others stayed.

“Guns, see if you can follow that truck,” Ferguson said. “I dumped a couple of bugs on top.”

“On it, Ferg.”

Though not as good as dedicated tracking devices, the bugs could be used as primitive range finders with roughly a three-mile range.

“Ferguson, where are you?” asked Rankin.

“About to break my legs getting off the reception building roof,” said Ferguson, looking over the side and realizing there was no easy way down.

~ * ~

15

SOUTH CHUNGCHONG PROVINCE

Guns ran down the hill and jumped into the car. He fumbled with his backpack, finally locating the audio bug’s receiving unit in a case at the very bottom. He had to squint to see the directional arrow in the screen.

Then they were gone. The bugs worked with line of sight radio waves, which would limit their range in this terrain.

At least he had the advantage of knowing which way the truck had come from. He eased down the dirt road toward the highway and waited for it to go by.

Five minutes passed before he realized his assumption was wrong; the truck had to have left by now and must be going the other way. Sure enough, he got the signal back as soon as he passed the waste facility.

It was weak; the truck was more than a mile beyond him, possibly close to the outside limits of the bug’s range. He stepped on the gas.

“Going east,” he told Ferguson. “He came from the west.”

“Just follow him until he gets somewhere. Check in later. We’ll meet you at the park.”

Guns had to slow down to take a series of curves as the road descended, braking so sharply that the receiving unit fell off the car seat. He grabbed for it, then lost it again as the road jerked right in front of him. Cursing at himself, he waited until he came to a straightaway, then reached down and grabbed the unit, holding it in front of the Hyundai’s dash.

They were straight ahead, about a half mile away.

Guns decided to trying ramping the volume on the unit, but the only thing he heard was a
whooshing
noise. Only one bug seemed to be working, even though Ferguson had told him he’d thrown more than one.

Five minutes later, Guns came to a north-south intersection. As he started across, he saw that the directional indicator had swung to the right. He veered across the shoulder and opposite lane of the deserted highway, scraping the muffler on the median curb. The car’s exhaust rumbled a bit louder as he got into the right lane, but at least he was going in the right direction.

While the immediate area was deserted, the truck would soon reach a built-up area where there were lots of intersections and turnoffs. Guns decided to close the gap. Within a few minutes the meter showed he was steadily gaining on the truck, and he started looking ahead for taillights, expecting them to appear at any second. Every so often he glanced at the receiver; his target was dead ahead.

And then suddenly it wasn’t.

The strength needle began backing off, and he lost the directional compass. Guns realized he’d somehow passed the truck.

He spun into a quick a U-turn. The strength gauge climbed again, showing the bug was dead ahead.

And then behind him.

He cursed, realizing the bug had fallen off the truck onto the road.

~ * ~

16

SOUTH CHUNGCHONG PROVINCE

It took Ferguson and Rankin nearly three hours to hike out of the waste plant property and down through the nearby park. Guns was leaning against the car near the fence, waiting for them, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Ferguson laughed, then slapped him on the back and told him not to take it so hard.

“I’m sorry I messed up, Ferg.”

“The bug fell off the truck. What are you going to do?”

“I shoulda been closer.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Rankin, tossing his gear in the trunk, couldn’t help thinking that Ferguson would have ridden his butt if it had been him rather than Guns who’d lost the truck.

“I checked the area out. Couldn’t find anything,” said Guns as they got in the car. “I took a picture of the truck coming into the plant. Maybe we can use that.”

“Maybe,” said Ferguson.

“Probably getting around some no-dumping law,” said Rankin.

Ferguson plopped into the front seat of the car. He’d hurt his right knee getting down off the roof, and he grimaced as he pulled it in.

“What’d ja do?” asked Guns.

“Roof was a little higher than I thought it was,” Ferguson told him. “I tried sliding down the ribs, but it didn’t work too well. Nothing a good belt of Irish whiskey wouldn’t cure,” he added.

Rankin snorted from the back.

“They have Irish whiskey in Korea?” asked Guns.

“Guns, they have Irish whiskey everywhere,” said Ferguson. He dug into his pocket and took out the sensors, examining them. Only one had gone red, the one that had been on the barrel. It had been positioned near the tracks to the permanent low-level waste area, right next to the route the truck had taken.

“Gonna be a nice day for a change,” said Rankin, looking out the window. The sun had just started to peek over the horizon.

Ferguson repacked the tags in an envelope, then sealed everything in a large carrying case. He snapped the lock closed, then reset the digital lock.

“Give this to Van and tell him to send it back ASAP,” he told Rankin, handing it back to him. “I’ll let Corrigan know it’s coming.”

“I thought we were all going to shadow Thera,” said Guns.

“This is more interesting,” said Ferguson. “Besides, Skippy likes to be alone with the Delta boys. They stay up late and talk all that blanket-hugger stuff while they roast MREs over the fire.”

“You’re a laugh a minute, Ferg,” said Rankin. “You oughta go on Jay Leno.”

“Keep working on it, Rankin. There’s a comeback in there somewhere,” said Ferguson.

~ * ~

17

CIA BUILDING 24-442, VIRGINIA

Corrine Alston got out of the elevator and walked down the narrow hallway to a stairwell guarded by two CIA security officers. The men stared straight ahead as she approached, doing their best to pretend that they didn’t notice her. She descended one level—the stairwells and elevators were separated to prevent a smart bomb from flying all the way down—and walked through a well-lit hallway The walls had recently been painted a soft blue on the advice of an industrial psychologist to add an air of calm, but it was a futile gesture. So much went on here that it was difficult for anyone to be calm.

Corrine put her thumb on a small panel next to the first doorway on the right. After a second’s delay, the doors swung apart, and she entered a vestibule leading to a small, secure conference room. In contrast to the rest of the building, the room was bereft of high-tech gadgetry. There was a whiteboard at the front and an old-fashioned slide projector on the table. The table and chairs were at least thirty years old, having been salvaged from another building.

Daniel Slott, the CIA’s deputy director of operations and the head of the agency’s covert operations division, sat alone at the table, fiddling with a plastic Papermate mechanical pencil. He looked up when Corrine entered, nodded, then went back to staring at his pencil.

Corrine pulled out a seat opposite him and sat down.

“So?”

Slott cleared his throat. “I thought I’d wait for the DCI.”

DCI was Agency-talk for “director of Central Intelligence Agency”— the head of the CIA, Thomas Parnelles.

“When will he be here?”

“Hard to tell.” Slott twisted the lead from the pencil. “He said he was on his way an hour ago.”

When she had first become involved with Special Demands, Corrine had assumed that Parnelles and Slott—generally considered the number-two man at the CIA—were close allies, but over the course of several operations she had come to realize they weren’t close at all.